


balance act

by your typical rockstar (tamquamm)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Look I'm in my feels because I'm tired of "Hating Mitch Marner Hours", Marner Contract Negotiations, Reaction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-11-02 02:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20597042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamquamm/pseuds/your%20typical%20rockstar
Summary: “Rule number one, you can’t break down where anyone can see you,” Willy tells him.





	balance act

**Author's Note:**

> Please bear with me, some obligatory fine print:  
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Mitch tries to hide it, he does, but _ fuck _ it wears him down.

Auston’s in California, so Mitch somehow finds himself at the front desk of Willy’s building, hood of his sweater drawn all the way up and baseball hat tugged low over his face. It’s fucking boiling outside, sunny summer day and everyone else out enjoying the sun on their skin, but Mitch knows better than to chance it. Especially when he’s like this.

He’s reluctant to give his name to the desk guy, but he does, quietly, and looks away before he can catalogue his reaction. That’s the last thing he needs to see, the visual, physical disgust right there in front of him. Bad enough with the way his stupid phone keeps buzzing in his pocket, against his thigh. A constant reminder that someone somewhere has something to say.

The guy makes a call up to Willy’s, routine, and eventually tells him where the elevators are, a prompt he can go. Mitch still doesn’t look at him, keeps staring at his feet. He knows the way, he doesn’t need to look.

Willy’s waiting for him upstairs. He hadn’t been expecting him but the minute in the elevator must’ve been just enough to prepare. He takes one look at him and, without a word, tugs him inside and gets to work. Mitch doesn’t question much, and that’s how they end up on the couch.

“Rule number one, you can’t break down where anyone can see you,” Willy tells him, and it’s maybe just a little sad. A leftover kind of sad, but Mitch doesn’t pick it apart right now. "No matter what you have to look resilient and strong and all of that bullshit. No matter what."

Willy’s got the air conditioning blasting so they’re wrapped up in blankets, precariously balancing a bowl of popcorn (yes with extra butter, because it’s one of those days, okay) between them. There’s that new horror movie playing on the TV, the one that Auston told them they could go ahead and watch without him (“In fact, _ please _ watch it without me”; “You’re still scared of movies?”; “I am _ not, _ just— shut up!”). So they put it on, but neither of them are really watching it.

“I know,” Mitch says, staring miserably into the popcorn bowl. “But at this rate I might as well stay home for the rest of however long this takes and never go out in public, like ever.”

Willy sighs, smiles just a little, sympathetic. “Why do you think I ran away to go back home?”

Mitch knows Willy’s trying for light, but he grimaces. “This _ is _ my home,” he gripes, even more miserable than before. “For now, anyway.”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” Willy goes with, instead of any of the pity and eggshell-walking that everyone else seems to default to. “You’ll be back before you even know it, okay? How that happens is whatever, ultimately you are going to be back right where you belong. Okay?”

But Mitch doesn’t feel it, knows that it’s _ not _okay. “But we can’t be so sure!”

Willy huffs, drops further into the couch and pulls the popcorn closer to himself. Mitch makes a face, but Willy shrugs, makes to throw a piece at him. It isn’t really the time, but Mitch is too exhausted to protest. Willy grins and throws it, Mitch dutifully catches it in his mouth. They bump fists.

“There’s the Mitchy I know,” Willy says. Hopeful, maybe. “You don’t have to worry, just know what you want in the end and let them debate. You just have to focus on yourself and on hockey. Don’t get wrapped up in it.”

“Should I call him?”

Willy makes a face. “Call who?”

“My agent,” Mitch says, like it’s obvious. “Tell him to get shit done, I don’t know. Do some PR at least?” His voice goes up with every word, more unsure the more he speaks. He huffs, runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I don’t know how this works.”

“You’re not supposed to,” Willy says fiercely. “That’s not your job, that’s their job. Yours is to just play hockey,” he repeats, firmer now.

Mitch doesn’t say anything, but he grabs a handful of popcorn and shoves it all in his mouth at once. He's twenty-two years old, he's an adult. Maybe it _is_ his job to get pushy with his agent. Maybe it is his job to say something. That's what everyone says, anyway. But the thought of saying something makes his stomach turn, freaks him out just a little. Darren's taken care of him since he was a _teenager,_ Darren's gotten him this far. He's trusted him, has always trusted him. His _dad_ trusts him, that's for sure, and Mitch has never thought about straying from his own father's guidance, not once, not until now. 

So for the first time in years, Mitch considers that maybe he shouldn't trust. But thinking is a whole lot easier than actually considering, let alone actually acting.

Because at what point is he old enough, mature enough to call a shot like that? At one point should he stop stumbling through this? He's twenty-two, he's _supposed_ to be grown up, he's _supposed_ to make his own decisions, he's _supposed_ to be capable of handling his own business. Mitch mentally kicks himself, because he can't even do half of anything without calling his mom, still. Can't even argue the color of his socks when his dad tells him to go change them. How is he supposed to do _this?_

He's only twenty-two, he thinks, but at the same time. He's already twenty-two.

Willy must know know him well enough to interpret his silence. He's patient, doesn’t push him, lets him think. They go back to the movie, not entirely following the plot anymore, but welcoming the distraction.

It’s a minute before Mitch speaks up again. Soft, again, but a little more sure than how it had sounded in his head. “I just feel like I should be doing something. That’s my face on the line.”

Willy scoots a little closer. “I know, but the best thing you can do is not give them anything at all.”

“That’s my image, that’s my like—” he groans, upset he can't articulate it. “That’s _ me, _ they’re saying things about _ me. _”

“I know,” Willy repeats. “And some people won’t forget it. And they’ll say shit. But you just can’t react. They don’t get it, they don’t understand.”

“Some people do,” Mitch keeps going. “There’s like, _ real _ reporters that are pissed. Not just fans, actual media, too. People I’ve talked to, people I _ know. _”

“So?” Willy keeps up. “They still don’t know. They can be pissed off all they want, whatever. It’s not you, and anyone who really matters in the game knows it’s not _ you. _ We have agents for a reason.”

“_You _ did stuff without your agent,” Mitch accuses then, switches the angle. He’s grasping at straws now, they both know it, but Willy doesn't point it out. 

“That’s not the same as what you’re talking about,” Willy says, patiently. “I wanted to hear Kyle say it to my face. That was between me and him. It had absolutely nothing to do with my image.”

“Yeah but everyone heard about it, anyway. There has to be a PR thing somewhere in there. I don’t know, I don’t know.”

Willy nudges their shoulders together, just to remind Mitch he’s here with him. “No, Mitchy. I knew what I wanted and I did what I needed to do. Whatever else came with it was whatever.”

Mitch takes a deep breath audible, and then it all just comes out, a burst, all in a rush. “But what if everyone hates me.”

“Okay,” Willy switches tactics. “So what if they do?”

Mitch blinks at him. “That’s bad?”

Willy rolls his eyes. “Who cares, you know your team has your back, your buddies and your family have your back. Hockey has your back.”

“Yeah, but, but—”

“Look,” Willy cuts him off. He sits up then, puts the popcorn on the coffee table. He looks Mitch in the eye, serious. “No matter what happens, you go out there and play the best fucking hockey you can and no one will be able to hate you forever.”

Mitch feels the intensity of it, feels how much Willy believes in it, himself. 

He doesn’t fully believe it, not yet anyway, but sitting here and hearing Willy himself say it, hearing him say what he’s already gone through — live through, _ survived _through — is starting to get through to him. 

Eventually, Mitch nods, even if a little hesitant. “Just play hockey. Just hockey.”

Willy nods, too. “And be the best you, just for you.” 

Mitch grabs the popcorn bowl.

  


**Author's Note:**

> is the popcorn a metaphor? maybe??
> 
> @ everyone, please redirect your misdirected anger, I guess I am apparently defending mitch marner as an individual now, weird times


End file.
